


Pass the Salt

by Rainbowrunner01



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Blending In, Drabbles, Just your friendly neighbourhood horseman, Multi, Neighbors, Sharing of sugar, There will be sleepovers, War doesn't understand human customs, War has muscles, You like Muscles, and aggressive cuddling, this is highly self-indulgent, trying to, you internal monologue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowrunner01/pseuds/Rainbowrunner01
Summary: There’s something a little weird about your new neighbour.
Relationships: War (Darksiders)/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	1. Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> Darksiders has consumed me. Here take this contribution to the fandom.  
> Please note this is highly self-indulgent and may be used for writing practice.

“I am in need of sugar.”

You blink, rapidly, clearing the sleep from your eyes.

“You need...sugar?” You enunciate the words slowly, eyes flicking to the digits displayed on the microwave clock—3:22 am. 

The hulking man outside your door—seeming to fill the entire hallway with his mass—perses his scarred lips.

“I have been told that it is customary amongst human neighbours to share in times of dwindling resources.” His voice is deep, said abrupt and to the point. 

You blink again, trying to puzzle out the formal way of speech.   
“Okay...um it's 3:30 in the morning.”

This particular statement seems to mean nothing to him as his startlingly blue eyes don’t so much as blink. 

“...right, I’ll just uhh get some for you.” you mumble awkwardly. Turning to trail sleepily back to your pantry, fluffy slippers making squeaking noises on the floor. Internally you’re hitting yourself over your lack of apparent social skills. The man seems to be one of your new neighbours that had moved in recently, to that particular unit down the end of the hall—for years now you had heard rumours it was haunted. The last tentants hadn’t lasted a month before they were packing their things again—a pity as you had been hopeful that the young couple would be the one to finally settle the silly hauntings. You grab a tupperware container from the bottom of your cupboard and fill it with some white sugar from your own.

Upon your return, the man still fills your doorway, looming like a bad smell, he hasn’t moved an inch from where you left him. 

You thrust the container up to him, smiling in what you hope is not an awkward way—but probably almost most certainly is. 

This is what neighbours do right? Neighbours share. Neighbours are welcoming, even at asscrack o’clock in the morning.    


Telling yourself this and putting your words into practice are wholly different.

Your hulking neighbour takes the tupperware without much fuss and—holy hell this guy has freaking  _ bear _ hands. 

Well...bear hand, the other is a pretty gnarly looking prosthetic attached at his bicep, and what a bicep it is. 

You’re pretty sure his muscles have muscles. 

You  _ really _ like muscles, on guys, girls and everything in between. You are somewhat ashamed to admit the urge to run your hands over them is strong.

Is he a body builder? 

Ex-military? 

Both?

It’s also 3:32 in the morning and waaaay too early to be thinking about this.

“My thanks, small neighbour. This boon will not be forgotten.” 

Boon? Who the hell even talks like that anymore?

This guy apparently.

You nod uncertainly.

As you close your door with a click, you listen to the heavy footsteps of your new neighbour until they fade away.

Huh, this dude is kinda weird, but then that’s a dime a dozen around here.

You crawl back into bed and fall asleep with your slippers still on.


	2. War

Three flights up with six bags of groceries and you can feel your arms beginning to noodle-afy. The last three steps and stretch of hall to your apartment are a seeming marathon. You’ll probably fall into a heap of spaghetti on the floor before you reach it, a heap of cold lifeless spaghetti dropped on the ground like yesterday’s leftovers. The poor cleaners will have to wipe you off the floor.    
You let out a high pitched yelp as you careen towards the ground, your shoe catching on the last step. No amount of windmilling—with your arms burdened by groceries as they are—will save you this day. 

You’re saved from smashing your nose into the concrete by hitting your chin on something almost equally as hard. 

You groan, pushing your now un-grocery laden arms against the miracle wall that has saved your nose—but not your chin. Your hands run over a series of bumps covered in some soft material. 

Huh, you don’t remember a wall being here.

The wall is clothed in a black cotton tee, jeans and has a very nicely built set of abs that you’re apparently feeling up.

The wall grunts.

Fuck.

You fling yourself away from your new neighbour with abandon—because apparently dying is better than this fate. A large hand snakes out and grabs your upper arm, stopping your second—and voluntary—fall this day. Without much effort you’re pulled away from the stair and back onto stable ground.

A pair of snowy white brows furrow over a pair of very blue eyes.

“Be cautious of your step, small neighbour. Your kind are rather prone to injury.” 

You blink rather stupidly.    
“I, uh...thanks? I mean for saving me from breaking my nose that is. Even though I almost broke my chin on your rock hard ab—ah I mean,” your face is going a rather bright shade of red.

Fuckfuckfuck. Come on you idiot, fix this. 

You stick your hand out. “Hi. I’m your neighbour.” You smile.

Your said neighbour raises a single brow. 

“I am aware.” 

You flush brighter, “...so what’s your name?” You try conversationally, your proffered hand still hanging in midair.

The man looks slightly confused by the gesture.

“...is this a hu—cultural gesture?” 

Cultural gesture?  _ Ohhh.  _

He’s a foreigner; that explains a lot...although you’re pretty sure handshakes are mostly universal at this point. 

“A greeting. You’re supposed to shake my hand.” See, you can be welcoming, nothing is worse than being in a place you don’t understand the customs of...like highschool. 

No, you won’t venture upon that nightmare of years. 

You’ve never particularly thought of yourself as small in stature—just above middle of the road for most genders—but damn this guy makes you feel little. His flesh hand takes yours—dwarfing it like a child’s—and shakes it about like a dog with a chew toy. 

It's a solid handshake. 

Which makes for a solid person.

With solid abs—fuck. No. Moving on.

You on the other hand are not quite so solid and fight to stay grounded on the spot. 

“I am known as War.” He declares, still ‘shaking’ your hand—and whole damn arm with it..

Huh, that’s a slightly sinister sounding name. Maybe its short for Warren?

You grin a little wider, taking note of the scar running across his lips, the bleach white hair that is long enough to be held back in a loose bun and general allround imposing stature.

War, certainly suited him.

“You got a last name with that big guy?” 

You gently attempt to release your arm from the hand shake, it takes a few moments of prompting for the man to finally release you. 

“...Rider.” He says after what seems a moments deliberation. 

“War Rider. Damn, cool name there.” You nod approvingly, in your nod you finally remember the dropped groceries still sitting on the stairs. You’re pretty sure that’s your off brand orange juice leaking out from the plastic bag down the stairwell.

You go about tiding up the scattered food items—thankfully eggs hadn’t been on the list today—and hefting all six bags with your very unmuscley, noodlish arms towards your apartment. Your awkward shuffling doesn’t get you very far as War plucks all six of the bags from you without warning, holding them aloft in a single hand like they weight fucking nothing. 

“Hey, hey, no dude. You don’t need to do that.” You flounder.

“Consider this repayment for the sugar you provided me.” He dismisses any further attempts to reclaim your groceries, holding them hostage until you fish out the key to your apartment and open the door. He promptly places all of them inside the doorway.

“Your inability to lift such light loads is indicative of a weak physique. You should consider seeking training.” He says seriously, before backing out of the door and leaving you to an empty hallway. 

You again flounder for a response.

...did he just tell you to go to the freaking gym?

Yes. Yes he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rider is a little obvious, no? Reader's response to being faced with muscles will forever make me giggle like an idiot.


End file.
